Barstool, Barbeque or Church Pew?

There’s a local bar in my neighborhood that is directly across the street from a church; I pass it every week when attending my own church which is a bit further down the same road. I recall one day several years ago when my young daughter and I waited in traffic and watched as the people left their church to walk across the street to get to their cars which were parked in the lot behind the bar. She didn’t realize the parking lot was there and asked: “Why does everyone leave church and go to that bar afterwards?” I laughed. Ohhh, so many responses to that one. Instead, I acted responsibly and explained that there was a parking lot there and the people were going to their cars, not the bar.

Some thoughts I read recently on the local bar from Chuck Swindoll’s book, “Encourage Me”:
“The neighborhood bar is possibly the best counterfeit there is to the fellowship Christ wants to give to His church. It’s an imitation, dispensing liquor instead of grace, escape rather than reality, but it is a permissive, accepting, and inclusive fellowship. It is unshockable. It is democratic. You can tell people secrets and they usually don’t tell others or even want to. The bar flourished not because most people are alcoholics, but because God has put into the human heart the desire to know and be known, to love and be loved, and so many seek a counterfeit at the price of a few beers.”

I am reminded of the need for fellowship, bonding, being known and being loved as we near the first holiday event of this summer—Memorial Day weekend. It brings to mind the concept of remembering those who serve our country, but it is also about gatherings, whether they be at the barbeque, the bar or church. Why do we get together? We simply want and need each other—to know and be known, to love and be loved. The gatherings we have in our churches are breathtakingly beautiful when the connections made there are safe, accepting and inclusive. Aware of my bias, I attend my own church, Daybreak Community Church (www.enjoydaybreak.com) because I know these types of connections can be made there. Our church has always worked towards being this type of environment which means more to me than the building or the organ music—because true fellowship and connecting can heal and bring hope in our otherwise busy, crazy world.

Tip of the week:
It’s finally sunny---and taking our workouts outside can be a welcome change. When I enjoy my workouts outside, whether it is to play some tennis or go for a walk, I get a double-dose: sunshine and sweat—a perfect combination!

Thoughts on Bread

Mmmm. Crusty bread from the oven, steaming hot, ready to be slathered with butter. There’s nothing like it. Baking homemade bread is a simple process with simple ingredients: flour, water, eggs, and the most critical ingredient of all—yeast.

Ironically, I find that the interesting thing about the yeast is that it’s rather boring in and of itself. Those little packets we get at the grocery store are unassuming. Open one, and not much seems to be going on in there. Mix it up in the right proportions with just a few other ingredients, though, and the result is not only a tasty bread, but a bread that has risen to more than double its original size because of the chemical reactions between the ingredients, including the yeast.

The requirement for this chemical reaction resulting in bread that has risen to its indulgent fluffiness is patience. Once the ingredients are mixed, they need to sit. And so we wait. And wait. And wait. This waiting period is like the various preparation periods in our lives where we don’t know what to do; where to go next, whether it be a job, a relationship or a decision. The waiting is critical though. It’s critical for the yeast to work with the other ingredients; it’s also critical for me to understand what my next move should be according to God’s plan, and that involves waiting.

Only in the waiting can I be prepared to move to the next stage: the stage when the heat is on. For the bread that has risen, it’s oven time. In the heat of the oven the bread finishes to perfection in all its crustiness; rises to its maximum doughiness, and becomes ready for the table in its best form yet. When I take the time to wait, I can take the ‘heat’ of life more easily. I will not only withstand the tough stuff, but thrive instead. Like the baked bread, I can become more than what I was when I started, and still be a perfect combination of the ingredients that make me who I truly am.

Tip of the week:
Salsa! Okay, whether it’s the salsa dance to add to your exercise repertoire, or the salsa condiment to top off your potatoes or scrambled eggs, it always works for some extra spice in the perfect format to enhance any weight loss effort. Enjoy!

Mr. Martin's Marbles

There’s a Mr. Martin in every neighborhood. You know: the old man or old lady who’s alone and once they catch anyone’s ear, the stories begin. In this case, Mr. Martin is almost 90 years young, whose wife died a few years ago, and who can remember every last detail of his childhood, challenges and choices in life. He’s from the “what’s the world coming to?” era and can remember times when there were no coins to rub together; not just being poor, but destitute. The Depression did that. There were lessons to learn and along the way, basic needs to be met, destitute or not.

One recent story I heard from Mr. Martin revolved around one of his favorite childhood games: marbles.

He could still remember the one and only time he actually had to punch somebody. There was another kid—a bully—who was stealing the other kids’ marbles. And one day, it was Mr. Martin’s marbles he was after. As one who generally prefers to avoid conflict, the young Mr. Martin startled the bully and himself by punching him in the nose to get his marbles back. The kid dropped all the marbles, including his own. Mr. Martin picked up his marbles and left.

The clincher? Mr. Martin said he wondered if that kid ever went back to get his own marbles again. Mr. Martin picked up his own marbles after the fight and left the rest—the marbles that belonged to the bully—in that very same spot.

What started as a lesson in dealing with bullies ended as a lesson for me to see yet another side of Mr. Martin—the one with integrity. Honesty and integrity are not just skills, they are character traits.

I’m so glad Mr. Martin still has his marbles.
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Tip of the week:
We all need each other to help us in our health and weight loss efforts. When the going gets tough, call a friend! The distraction and the delay may be helpful in avoiding a potential binge.

Shattered Glass

Recently, I've been reminded that as I eat less, I want to scream more. Here's a fiction piece to remind myself that I need to watch my words, too, not just what I eat:

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"You make me sick!"

She watched as her son instantly withered into a dried-out autumn leaf. The promise of his newfound interest in archery crumbled under the heavy footprint of her words. She looked at those shoulders which were just starting to display the broad frame of the man he would become and the slight fuzz of darkness across his upper lip. He sunk into his favorite spot on the sofa and said "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to lose the arrow."

She was so excited to finally have a hobby to share with her son, who desperately needed his father in his life right now--and spent all her extra cash from the coffee can to buy him his first quiver, bow and handmade arrows with feathers in his favorite color--green.

She had so many words to say, to scream, to yell, to whisper, and yet the fewest of them created the most damage--the shattered glass of her son's soul was about to crumble into a messy heap. She knew she needed another outlet for those words; it was the only way to pick up the broken pieces, even if not to put them together.

She opened the phone book and found the listings under 'P'. Psychiatrists.

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Tip of the week: Do whatever it takes--scream, yell, run around the block--to walk away from the fridge when it's clear that the answer is not in there!

Mountain Madness part 3: Coming DOWN

Whew. A group of us climbed up the mountain, enjoyed the view from the top, and now it’s time to head back down.

Wait a minute. I don’t want to go down. I don’t want to head back to the place I was before; I don’t want to deal with hectic schedules, another day of running around, heading off crises while taking care of a family and a home and, oh yea, myself. This trek up a mountain with the beautiful view from the top leaves me changed. I see this experience as one of those times in life I cannot remain the same. For now, though, I need to simply hold onto that experience like another item in my backpack, and take the challenge of heading back down the mountain.

My friend said it was steep. The signs say it’s steep. But I didn’t know “steep” until I was going backwards down the rock formations to get to the next lower level. Like before, I was given suggestions to help my footing—walk sideways, take small steps, have one foot braced before moving the other—but I was taking those suggestions more seriously this time. I was trying to remember any scripture that could be dusted off in my memory about standing on rocks or having my feet grounded, and all I could think of was “trust in the Lord.” Yikes. Can’t I do that while standing on level ground? Apparently not, sometimes. Sometimes I need to be heading down the sliding board of a mountainside to realize that I am truly freaked out. I was actually quiet since I couldn’t talk and concentrate at the same time.

Trust and gratitude. It was about all I could feel—trust that God will get me back down because there’s nothing left to trust, and gratitude for my friends and their practical tips along the way. They even helped out by carrying some of my things—my water bottle, the camera.

It really is the same as life, isn’t it? When things are tough and I’m freaked out beyond my own abilities, it’s then that I know God will show up. And He even sends my friends to help me out, not in those intangible “I’ll pray for you” ways, but hands-on help by carrying my load, and practical tips and suggestions on making the way easier, safer, smoother. In these mountain reflections, I’m reminded that I want to seek after God’s presence in my life on level ground, too. I know God is there, but I forget. This mountain madness adventure was a much-needed reminder about dependence on God. Trust and gratitude; so simple but so challenging.

Tip of the week:
Last week, I suggested something “new” in the routine to boost health/fitness goals; this week, I’m suggesting we try something “old”. We all have a favorite food item, walking path, recipe or technique that has worked for us in the past—let’s do that again. For me one of those old techniques was to pray to God and promise that I wouldn’t blow it with my eating that day (or that hour, or that minute—whatever it takes!)—I can do that again, and again, and again—whatever it takes!

Mountain Madness part 2: At the Top

The view from the top of a mountain. Breathtaking. Silent. Overwhelming. Colorful. Dizzying. Misty. Bigger than myself.

I continue this discussion of my recent adventure hiking up a mountain during a retreat to consider the view from the top. As I was climbing, I remember thinking: just get to the top, just get to the top. That focus helped me to keep going, despite the fear of heights that permeated the core of my being. “Just get to the top” helped to override the thought “One slip and I’ll fall wayyyyy down.” For some, it’s not heights, but other fears—no matter what the fear, it can override our rational thoughts in any circumstance. The view from the top was my reward for pushing through the fears. And boy, was it beautiful.

It was interesting to see the treetops from the top. Hey, when I look at a tree, I see the top, but from the ground instead. It reminds me how I see life’s situations from a certain angle, but forget I can see the same thing from another perspective with new clarity and insight. It was also fun to be higher up, and though my intellect knew I wasn’t actually in the clouds, my imagination let me think I was. And what if a bird flew by and I was in its path? Waterfalls also look way different from the top than from the side of the mountain. I wonder what else I need to view from the top: perhaps my goals in life, my relationships, my daily decisions, and my desire for control. Oh yea, it’s God who’s in control, and God’s view from the top has a clarity that I’ll never understand, but I can imagine is beautiful; breathtaking; peaceful.

Our group shared a prayer circle up there; and although I know my God is everywhere, at the top and at the bottom of a mountain, I can say it felt like we were truly closer to God. The dependence on Him at the top, to hold us up, to be that Rock I was standing on, to stop and notice His presence, was worth the hike. Really.

In 2 Samuel 22:32-34 (NIV) it says: “For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God? It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he enables me to stand on the heights.” There’s no way to be up there without a prayerful moment. Those are the moments that keep me going, whether up or down the mountain, and it’s for those moments I’m always grateful.

Tip of the week:
When the going gets tough and I need new motivation for my health and weight loss goals, I find something new: a new Scripture to put on my fridge, a new recipe, a new fruit or vegetable to try, or a new exercise routine adjustment. This newness reminds me I’m always starting over and keeps me going in the many restarts.

Mountain Madness part 1: Going UP

Ingredients:
- A group of women at a retreat near the Pocono Mountains
- A clear blue sky
- Brisk, spring breezes
Combine at low speed with a large block of free time and you have your recipe for a long mountain hike.

This city girl was all set to stay in at the quiet, roomy lodge. Y’know: relax, perhaps do a DVD workout, read, or watch a movie. Somehow the idea of a hike, which was furthest from my mind as a free time activity, made it into the realm of possibility and I surprised myself when I agreed to join the group on the “Nature Trail.”

The first stage of this trail walk was the path UP. Hmmm: “Nature Trail.” It sounded safe. It sounded like it was only slightly adventuresome. It sounded like a slow but steady trek along a clearly defined flat path where I could possibly view interesting grasses, flower buds, or an unusual bird or two. It sounded safe, I thought.

About twenty minutes into the walk, my panting and sweating confirmed that there was nothing flat about this trail. While picking across some rocks alongside the stream, I wanted to stop and really look at the beauty around me. But I couldn’t. Why? There was quite a way to look—DOWN. I finally admitted to my fellow hikers that I’m afraid of heights, especially these kinds of heights, where a slight misstep or unstable rock could send one of us careening into the depths below.


Suddenly, I was surrounded. Both in front of me and behind me, a couple of women watched my steps and gave lessons along the way. It was too late to go back; too late to change my mind, and so I would press forward, but with help this time. Suggestions and techniques were stated clearly: “Stay on the balls of your feet when going up.” “Make sure your foot is steady and grounded before moving the other foot.” “Make sure you take small steps.” “Walk sideways if you need to.”

Like life, we find ourselves on adventures we hadn’t anticipated. We may be surprised at the effort it takes to travel a seemingly flat trail when instead it becomes a rocky terrain to get to the next yellow tree marker. When I admit my fears, like in this case my fear of heights, the help I need comes easily. My fellow hikers, who I think were part-women-part-mountain-goats shared tips for my journey to make it safer and easier for me. For that, I’m grateful. This trip on the “Nature Trail” became a new adventure and a reminder that I can still learn lessons while going uphill on this mountain of life.

Tip of the week:
To stick to your exercise routine, plan it a week in advance and write your plan on a calendar. Then you simply need to check your plan and start moving, without having to think about it. I use the ‘mile system’ with Leslie Sansone’s DVDs and decide how many miles I’m doing each day, and which day or two I have off.

Constitutional Walking Tour

A recent trip to Philadelphia included the constitutional walking tour of the city’s historic sites. A walking history lesson for 1 ½ hours. I think I would have enjoyed learning this stuff in seventh grade if we got the chance to walk around and see the places where the historic events occurred. Back then, I simply read the text, memorized the dates, and repeated the answers correctly on the written exam. This time, it was fun to learn the same old information.

My favorite takeaway impression from this adventure is the common theme of common men attempting to make courageous changes in their worlds. Our tour guide shared the basic history facts, but he also included the fun facts. I enjoyed learning that Independence Hall wasn’t always called Independence Hall, and yet still is the building of “National Treasure” movie fame. I learned that the Liberty Bell now resides in a security-laden pavilion only because of the crazy man who tried to hit it with a hammer to release the spirits of the long-dead presidents. I learned that the pennies tossed onto Ben Franklin’s grave are there for no apparent reason. I learned that Betsy Ross’ body is buried at the Betsy Ross house, but was originally buried elsewhere and got moved there so she could be next to her third husband.

This new way of learning the same old information is reminding me of new ways I’m diving into the Old Testament stories of the Bible. Instead of simply reading the text, I’m enjoying the fun stories behind the scenes. In this way, I find the Old Testament stories relatable and glean appropriate insight for my own life today. Yes, today’s times are different than 2000+ years ago, but the fundamentals remain: the desire for freedom, for choices, for understanding. The few courageous men who dared to challenge the British traditions in the startup of America were similar to the prophets of the Old Testament days who dared believe in an all-Sovereign God despite what the people of their neighboring towns believed.

I’m grateful for my American freedom; I’m even more grateful for freedom in Christ. Like the walking constitutional tour, I want to live my life as if it’s a walking Christian woman tour. Keeping it fun; keeping it true. And maybe I can keep learning new things along the way.

Tip of the week:
If necessary, utilize the dish soap destruction method for food that calls your name and you need to resist. Just last week I had a few chocolate chips too many for a recipe, and disposed of the rest of the chips with the perfect shot of green soap on top to be sure I didn’t eat them. It works!

A Writer's Life

I recently returned from a writing conference: three days of workshops and conversations with other writers, publishers, editors and agents. My mind is still spinning with the information and new ideas to process. Being around all that creativity stirs the creativity within me. I reflect on my own writing life as a result and realize it’s similar to the health-conscious life I lead with a forever focus on food, exercise and weight.

There’s an aspect of being a writer that is never ‘turned off’. Ideas are everywhere, when I’m awake and when I’m asleep; when I’m driving and when I’m in the shower; when I eat and even when I sit down to write. All those ideas need to be considered, indulged, sorted and shared. It reminds me of when I went to college part-time in the evenings. The only way to survive those eight long years of work towards the goal of that college degree was to accept what felt like the never-ending nature of school assignments. The only break was between semesters, but during those class sessions, there was always something else to read, something to write, something to study for.

The role of being health conscious, too, is never ‘turned off’. Food is everywhere, when I’m awake and when I’m asleep; when I’m driving and when I’m in the shower; when I write and even when I sit down to eat. All the food needs to be planned, purchased, cleaned, cut and cooked. Every day. Three times a day, at least. Unless I choose to fast for some period of time, there really is no break. Ever.

Another aspect of being a writer is the need for discipline within the creativity. Over and over again in workshops and conversations I hear about keeping our writing lives a priority; making sure to take the time to write whether or not the muse strikes. When writing is a paid job, there is attention to the task at hand; there is a tangible deadline and paycheck that results from the act of writing. When writing is part of a bigger goal, such as a book, there is the discipline required to persevere in its writing, editing and promoting. There is the unknown end date; the unknown deadline, but the need to continue remains intact. The need for daily attention to the writing task is simply disciplinary in nature.

Being health conscious is always disciplinary in nature. A self-professed lack of discipline is what causes most people to see the eating and exercising as ‘on’ or ‘off’ tasks, but instead there is more success in remaining healthy when we see the tasks as ‘forever’ tasks; never ‘off’. Only then can we gain the tenacity to stay with it day after day without throwing in the towel on our health efforts.

I claim the right to remain creative while being disciplined. I claim my identity as a health-conscious writer. Forever.

Tip of the Week:
To stay on my eating and exercise program, I really must pray. Not the ‘bless this food’ prayer rituals, but really pray. Every day. This week, I commit to revisiting the focus on prayer; making sure my prayer time is a higher priority than the million other things I need to do. Amen.

Taylor Swift: Fearless

High-pitched screaming. Cheering. Arms waving. More screaming. Through my earplugs, I could still hear the excitement. Yes, I am the parent of a Taylor Swift fan. And yes, I, too, am Fearless.

Among thousands of groupies at the recent concert as part of her “Fearless” tour, I was fascinated by Taylor Swift. She lives up to her reputation of being beautiful, energetic and connected. I have never seen a performer work so hard at making sure she exuded a sense of one-on-one connection with each of her fans. She displays a sense of gratitude and humility while sharing her talents as an artist and a person. Taylor Swift may only be nineteen, but is wise beyond her years. There were moments during the concert when I intentionally sat down and looked around. The joy of seeing my daughter experience this concert was palpable. Watching others, however, I understood the appeal of this young artist. The wide range of ages among the Swift fans—girls as young as four years old up to women who must’ve been older than me (oh, the horror)—were all singing along to those familiar lyrics of a female’s life. Dreams of being a princess; finding our own way in this world; recovering after being treated badly by a boyfriend—all common themes and perpetually relatable. It has been a long time, but I could still recall being “Fifteen” at the prompting of Taylor’s lilting rendition of teenage life.

I was also fascinated at the purity of the concert experience. Growing up in the era of rock ‘n roll rebellion, I associated concerts with radical dynamics, not the music. This time, the music itself was a welcome treat, as if I was chatting with my best friend or reading a great book.

As we stumbled along with the rest of the herd to exit the concert, a young girl next to me exclaimed my favorite comment: “This will be the topic of discussion for the rest of my LIFE!” Now that’s quite an impression.

Spring into Exercise...Again

Warmer weather. The reprieve from the harsh cold and imposing snowstorms of the winter are over. (Well, maybe.) It’s not spring yet, but the smells in the air, the robins on the roofs and the smiles and skip in the steps of people everywhere indicate that we’re close to this next season.

I find it interesting to see a lot of people get excited about exercise again at this time of year, too. Whether it’s the seasonal change itself, or the fear of getting back into shorts and bathing suits again, the exercise industry seems to benefit from the renewed interest. Admittedly, it’s great to experience a walk in fresh air, not a sweaty gym, and to hear new sounds, tackle new hills in the neighborhoods and simply to be outside for a change.

I also find it interesting to hear people say they have a stronger commitment to exercise because of the weather. In some cases, it’s true. In most cases, though, it’s simply another phase. I’m more impressed with people who start a new exercise regimen in the winter, or perhaps that infamous January 1st start date, and are still in their exercise routine today—three months later. Then, if they say it’s time to take it outside, I am pretty confident it’s simply a new twist on an old routine, which is healthy.

Where will all those outside-weather-exercisers be with the first rainstorm? On their couches, I presume. Time to break out the at-home workouts, or head back to the sweaty, smelly gym again. Boy, isn’t exercise fun?

Penny Candy

Ahhh. The smell of spring. School recess time. Jumping rope and penny candy. Red hot dollars. Root beer barrels. Sugar daddy lollipops. And my favorite: boxes of chalky, yummy candy cigarettes. Oh, and the soft pretzels too.

Sugar and carbs. What more could a kid want to refuel mid-day? When I was a kid, we could buy candy and soft, doughy pretzels at recess time. We squirreled away our coins to indulge in our favorite treats. The pretzels were a bonus; hey, it was Philadelphia—the pretzels were a requirement. The money transactions on the blacktop were simple enough: exchanging coins for smiles. The grueling chores of school life were briefly replaced with sugary ecstasy; penmanship was exchanged for pretzels with just the right amount of salt.

Unhappy dentists must have rebelled, though. Today, school age kids are lucky to even have twenty minutes of recess time; twenty minutes is not much time for fresh air, for running around. Oh, and forget about buying candy. Or pretzels.

Back in elementary school, I still remember one method of discipline that was used on Patrick, who was the kid in my class who talked too much. The teacher made him sit in the closet. No, it wasn’t a time-out on a chair facing the closet; he was IN the closet. One of those days, Patrick rose to the occasion, though. He sat in that closet and ate the recess candy. It was a delicious victory for all of us.

I believe God wants us to enjoy the good things in life—in this case, sugar and carbs. It doesn’t seem right to go too far to the other extreme without the goodies; without the fresh air. The moderation is the challenge. Like my fortune cookie paper said: “Everything in moderation, including moderation.”

Gravy Connections

My mom’s homemade gravy, bubbling and steaming, is prepared exactly the same way Nana cooked it. Small spatters of red on the white stove mark the perfectly stirred combination of puree, meatballs, sausage, a carrot, an onion and spices. Recipe sharing was done only in the kitchen, in front of the pot, with the appropriate stories shared along with the instructions. My mouth watering, I look around for a slice of pure white bread to dunk into that pot; I used to sneak the bread-dunking routine when I was a kid. It’s fun that I can dunk in front of Mom now. Mom tells me her mother-in-law taught her all the family’s Italian recipes. It was the in-law rite of passage.

What’s so interesting and delicious are the feelings evoked with the wonderful smell of that gravy—the nurturing, the sharing, and the indulging. The traditions themselves don’t matter; what does matter is the closeness they represent. How perfect that our traditions are about “gravy”. The expression “it’s gravy” means it’s “extra”; similarly, our traditions with the food result in the connections which are the “extra”. Why, I’ve always wondered, is it always about the food? Sharing a meal forces us to slow down enough to sit and talk with each other. These connections are lost in the usual schedules of our lives. No wonder I love the gravy so much. Pass the white bread please.

Grocery Math

Every time I go to the grocery store, I think I should bring my calculator. I used to bring the calculator so I could estimate my food bill as I shopped, so I knew when to stop according to my budget. Now I have to estimate the food bill in my mind because I need the calculator for grocery math.

Why do hot dogs come in packs of 10 but the rolls are packs of 8 or 12? How many packages of hot dogs would I need to be equivalent to the number of packages of hot dog rolls? Hey, who wants a hot dog without a roll anyway? Gotta pull out the calculator.

When soda is on sale, how do I quickly calculate if the two-liter sale is better or worse than the price for the individual cans? Gotta pull out the calculator.

Why is it that when I used to buy pre-packaged shredded cheese, I knew it contained two cups? It said so on the package. Now there are packages that contain two cups, but others that contain one and one-half cups. Is it worth buying a second package of cheese to get the other half cup? Then how many packages would I need to get an even two cups, which I need for most recipes, again? Gotta pull out the calculator.

Don’t even talk to me about the nutrition information on those food labels. What is a serving size, really? It used to mean a suggested portion for a reasonable serving of a given food item. Now it has changed so that it means how much of that packaged food equals about 100 calories. We’re all into this hundred-calorie thing now, admit it. And so my cereal has completely lost its mind. One type has as its serving size to be ½ cup, another is 1 ¼ cups and yet another is 1 cup. How much cereal should I be eating? Calculator time again.

The most critical use of the calculator: popcorn math. I have calculated and re-calculated a variety of popcorn labels to determine how many calories, fat and fiber are in two tablespoons of popcorn and in an entire bag of popcorn. Why do I need to know the number for two tablespoon if that’s not what I’d eat anyway? Does 94% fat-free popcorn mean it contains 6% fat? Okay, forget the calculator now. Just pop the popcorn.

No wonder I’m tired and hungry after I get groceries. Time for a snack. Start calculating.

Google Wonder

Googolplex and infinity. What is googolplex? Well, I googled it. It’s defined as a number; the number one with the exponent of googol; googol is defined as the digit one followed by one hundred zeros. All of this is not to be confused with “infinity”, which is more of a concept than a number; the number that never ends.

What ever happened to those beautiful concepts; the ideas like infinity and creation, which allow us to use our brain cells to wonder about things? We are born to wonder; it’s how we learn. As infants, the learning process seems more intuitive and evolves as a process of trial and error, but somewhere post-toddler years and before school age years, the sense of wonder takes hold and a child’s imagination is born. Imaginary friends; imaginary situations; imaginary colors—all the stuff of blending what we already know with what is unknown. The unknown factor is what makes it interesting.

And then came google. How many colors are really in a rainbow?, I might ask at the dinner table one night. Out comes the blackberry and it’s googled. Answer found. What makes a bubble round?, I wonder. Out comes the blackberry and it’s googled. Answer found. How fast could a skier really fly down those moguls?, I say, as I watch the Olympics with wonder. It’s googled.

The googling has got to go. I wish for the wonder to return. I tire of the possibility of quick answers without thought. I prefer to wonder; to exchange ideas; to rediscover things that may have already been discovered and researched. And so, I prefer the number infinity. You can keep googolplex. How long would it take to write the number googolplex on paper? I wonder.

Snowdog

Things aren’t always as they seem.

It’s a winter with snow. Lots of it. Almost two feet of it, brightening, calming, silencing the landscape. Its beauty is in its ability to outline all that we see already, or do we?

My daughter and I declared the time to be snowman-building time. We climbed through the piles in our backyard and picked the perfect spot for our snow creature to stand. Closer inspection revealed the snow to be the fluffy stuff; sifted confectioner’s sugar, to the highest level of slippery smoothness. We’d repeatedly gather a handful and squeeze it together for the starting snowball to begin building our snowman, only to result in another crumbled pile of white remnants at our feet. Brushing off the crumbs from my gloves one more time, we switched gears and changed our task. We must reinvent the crumbly snow and create the wet stuff we need for perfect snowballs and snowmen and snow forts.

We had two approaches to the problem: 1) a thermos of water to wet the snow, and 2) the search for already-wet snow to use for our snow building task. Pouring water onto the small pile we made, we were pleased at the hardening ice to keep the pile from flattening. The snow-watering was tedious, though, and we were convinced plan 2 would be an easier solution. I went around to the front of the house and discovered a spot where dripping water from the roof caused a section of snow to be the perfect icy, wet stuff. My daughter took the assignment of snow-watering to keep our pile strong. Imagine the crazy scene: my daughter watering snow, and me carrying piles of wet, usable snow from the front of the house around to the back so that the snowman-building project could continue. No, we weren’t crazy. We were inventing.

Eventually, our pile became large enough to sculpt into the round shape needed for the classic snowman. Determined to gather just one more pile of wet stuff, I went to the front of the house and discovered a small boulder left over from the driveway being plowed. I picked it up, carried it back and gingerly placed it on top of the mound. It’s a snowdog, my daughter said. And so it was. What we thought would be a snowman became a snowdog. Sometimes we need to just leave things alone, even if they aren’t as they seem.

The Man In The Window

Once upon a time, there was a school bus stop. The neighborhood near the school bus stop was a quiet one, although the rows of houses in the little development were quite cozy and close together. Every day, anywhere between five and ten children gathered at this school bus stop, ranging between five and ten years old, and they waited together each morning with their parents for the yellow bus to arrive.

One of those children was different from the rest; instead of acting like the other children, jumping and giggling and chasing the other children in tag, she watched. An audience of one, she observed every nuance; every word spoken loudly or softly, every bird flying above, every car driving by. The bus stop was at the intersection of a busy road, so she had to wait for the cars to pass so she could observe the interesting houses across the road which stood all by themselves on little mats of grass, like the special kindergarten mat she had in school a couple years ago. Each house occupied just enough space to exist but not enough space to be noticed--much.

One day, the little girl was at the bus stop again and saw that the small white house across the road had its curtains opened for the first time ever. There was an old man standing at the window, watching for the school bus, too. He looked across at the children and looked at his watch. When the bus finally arrived, the man looked at the children again, lifted his arm, and waved. He waved to each one of those children as they got on the bus, and then he closed the curtain.

The afternoon came and the school bus returned back to the neighborhood. The girl got off the bus and looked back across the busy road. The curtains were open again. The man waved again. She glanced over but didn’t respond.

The next day, the old man was at the window again when the morning bus arrived. He waved as each of the children got on the bus. And then the curtains were closed again. When the afternoon bus dropped the children back home, she noticed the curtains were open again and the man waved a greeting.

The third morning, the old man was at the window. He opened the curtains and stood at the window. Waiting. Again. The bus was a little late this morning. The girl looked across and saw him checking his watch and checking back at the road. And waiting. This time, the man waved from the window but the bus wasn’t there yet. Hesitantly, she waved back. When the bus came, he waved as each of the children got on the bus. The bus driver noticed the old man, too, and gave a friendly honk as he took off.

Several months went by. The old man was at the window almost every morning, and when the curtains were drawn, the children finally expected him to wave to them. They all waved back now. They actually noticed.

One day, the girl said to her mother at the bus stop: “We should visit him one day.” Her mother said, “Fine, honey; let’s do that some time.”

Two more weeks went by and the girl said it again. “We should visit the old man one day.” Her mother said “Okay. We’ll go over together after school today.”

That afternoon, the girl and her mother went across the road. They went to visit the old man. The butterflies in the girl’s stomach were jumping and giggling as she knocked on the door. And the old man answered the door.

The girl and her mother found out that the old man had a wife who died two years before; he was alone and said he remembered that someone waved to him at his school bus stop when he was a little kid. And so he passed the heritage on.

The next morning, the girl went to the school bus stop. The first thing she did was wave to the man in the window. Then she jumped and giggled and chased the other children in tag. And the man watched and smiled. And the girl noticed.

Coffee Connections

I love coffee. I love it, not only for the taste, caffeine, and warmth but the conversations and connections that accompany it. It effortlessly blends into all aspects of my day and enhances a variety of my routines.

First and foremost, coffee defines my morning routine. The steps to prepare and wait for the coffee are perfect preludes to my first and most important conversation of the day—my conversation with God. This ritual provides the grounding that allows the rest of my day to proceed with purpose. Okay, the ritual helps me wake up in those early hours of the morning. I treasure the precious block of solitude; it provides clarity and direction.

Secondly, coffee enjoyed sometime during the day usually accompanies a chat between friends when we need to perform our own personal therapy sessions, finding patterns and meaning in our thoughts, decisions and perspectives. Sorting and putting words to those thoughts is always easier with a cup of steaming java to steer the way.

Finally: what beats a great cup of coffee after dinner? The perfect antidote to a day gone bad, or a reward for a good day, it’s a way to sit and reflect on my experiences.

Why do I love coffee? Because it forces me to sit when I otherwise wouldn’t. I am an on-the-go person, and the act of sitting with that cup of brew gives me the chance to think. It makes life more valuable to me with the forced reflection time.

My coffee habit: it’s my indulgence and I’m sticking to it.

Glass Half Full

I’ve noticed a lot of attention to the usual January topics in my personal life and out there in the media: diet and exercise. With New Year’s resolutions (whether we agree with them or not) come the solutions—eating and exercise programs which seem to provide a fresh new perspective on the same old thing: losing weight. This year’s slant on the new way of eating and exercise seems to be the focus on our metabolism. Metabolic makeovers. I know there are shards of truth among the shattered dreams these promises provide, but I’m skeptical. I know it’s about eating healthfully. Period. More information won’t change the basic facts: eating better and moving more is required.

We like to discuss problems: “ It’s difficult to lose those last ten pounds (seem like a common theme here?)”, or “It’s difficult to get the time for grocery shopping”, or “It’s difficult to take the time to cook”… but with all these statements, we’re only talking about the problems, not the possible solutions. I paraphrase a quote from Lanny Basham, champion of multiple Olympic medals and author of a mental management system, who says: “Come to me with the solutions, then we can talk.”

I thoroughly enjoy Lanny Bassham’s system of mental control called Mental Management. He’s an American sports shooter who won a gold in the 1976 Summer Olympics and silver in 1972; however he attempted to win a gold at Munich in 1972, realizing a mental failure caused him to take the silver instead. This mental management system developed as a result. No, I’m not competing for the Olympics but I love the focus and direction of this mental management system. Losing weight and maintaining a healthy weight for a lifetime requires the tenacity, focus and motivation that the Olympic athletes employ. What I’ve learned? It’s how I look at it. As simple as the glass-half-empty-or-half-full approach to a lifestyle change is the simplicity of the decision to look at new eating programs and ways of exercise as a glass-half-full type of lifestyle.

As for Lanny, he utilized his own mental management system to move forward and within the next six years, dominated his sport, winning 22 world individual and team titles, setting 4 world records, and winning the coveted Olympic Gold Medal in Montreal in 1976. I can’t wait to be a winner like that. Metabolic makeovers. Maybe they’re not so bad.

Exercise: As long as it Exists, it's Okay

I have been doing low-impact aerobic walking workouts using at-home DVDs for more than five years now and I love some parts of the experience; I simply tolerate others. It might seem like I enjoy exercising, but actually I exercise because I need to do it, kind of like taking vitamins . Okay, sometimes I think it’s great to get sweaty and enjoy the sense of accomplishment once I’ve finished a workout, but I don’t always feel like starting. Exercise, for me, need not be exciting. Just easy. What’s more important to me is that exercise simply exists. It doesn’t need to be overwhelming or perfect; it just needs to be done.

January 2010. It’s the start of a new year and so I indulge in the pursuit of New Year’s resolutions. As a goal-oriented person, I savor the chance to re-state some resolutions, create new ones, and reconnect to the plans I have in progress: voila! New Year’s resolutions! For me, the resolutions represent the pleasure of a fresh new start. This year’s resolutions include the exercise regimen…but with a new twist. I will also change up my workouts to make them more interesting.

In order to pursue my resolution of interesting workouts, I interjected hand weights and other strength moves in with my usual low-impact aerobic walking. What a surprise to have some fun and feel empowered to do pushups for the first time in my life! This new level of strength inspired me to sample a different type of at-home workout I found on sale: “The Firm”. It’s quite flashy and seems more extreme in its promises but I was ready for a new step; tentative, but ready.

Boy was I wrong. I couldn’t even try to make my muscles bulge because my eyes were bulging at the crazy moves I saw on this video. Perhaps I could accomplish the moves if I were training for ballet on a New York stage, but a simple workout routine for a writer/mom does not include what I saw on those DVDs. To add to the irony, the recordings were actually a remake of workouts created back in the 80’s—during my own prime years of life when I could have attempted these moves without a major injury. Imagine those perfect people with big hair to match the big muscles surrounding the slim bodies, colorful tights and leotards, and, of course, legwarmers. Scary.

Whew. I almost jumped onto a crazy fitness bandwagon there. Back to basics for me—simple exercises. I know it’s the consistency of the workouts, not the excitement, which will provide me with healthy results.

Christmas Cookies

It’s time to take down the decorations and, for me, it’s also a good time to reflect on this year’s Christmas traditions to determine what we enjoyed most, and least, in this past month. One task that I struggle with year after year is the tradition of baking Christmas cookies.

I love to bake. That’s part of my challenge. The other part is that I also love to eat cookies. I can be obsessed with them, just like I am with chocolate candy. Yes, my level of obsession has gotten smaller, as I continue this journey towards healthier approaches to food over these last five years, but those cookies are definitely a ‘red light’ food item for me. But the enjoyment of baking is something I’ve learned since I was a young girl. I know how to time the pizzelles ‘just so’ to create perfectly toasted cookies, not too white and not too brown. I know how to get the butter cookie batter to just the right consistency to create uniformly shaped trees and stars. I know how to knead the batter from my Great-Aunt-Pauline’s “S” cookie recipe in such a way to result in anise-y, lemony biscuits that melt in my mouth as I enjoy them with a steaming cup of coffee. Not only do I crave these experiences of baking, but I smile at the memories that the mouth-watering aromas bring from the baking cookies, hot in the oven. I want to pass along some, if not all, of those memories to my own daughter, and it tears my heart to think she might not learn some of these traditions.

Hence the struggle. If I bake these cookies, who’s going to eat them? Me! Well, me and my husband and kids too. But mostly me! My conclusion to this year’s cookie baking decision was to delay the baking until after the holiday rush. My daughter and I put together a small batch just last week, and it was fun for me to enjoy the time with her, and to watch my family appreciate the goodies in our house.

There was another gesture I appreciated this year. It was what I call “The Perfect Cookie Tray” brought over by a friend. She made multiple batches of homemade goodies at her house, and wanted to share some with our family. She also knows me well enough to bring her gift in the perfect package: a small tin of exactly eight cookies…two each for the four of us. We could indulge, but not overindulge. I felt understood and loved. Perhaps that’s what the cookies are all about—being understood for who we are, including our heritage, and being loved. Yum.

More Turkey Reflections: A Gift

This past holiday season was a whirlwind of activity including get-togethers with family and friends, shopping, wrapping presents, household chores, picking up groceries, and, of course, exercising and cooking wholesome foods. I decided I would roast a turkey instead of having drive-through meals which had a minimum of protein and a maximum of fat in them. Does a McDonald’s hamburger really count as protein? Even the flame-broiled Wendy’s or Burger King burgers seem to be more like burger-food than protein to me. I wanted help our family eat a little bit better these past couple weeks. The thawing turkey was in the fridge, ready to be stuffed and cooked for our family. The problem: when can I cook it? The 15 pound bird required a good 4-5 hours of oven time which meant I needed to be home for 4-5 hours straight.

This time commitment reminded me again of the “Be still and know that I am God…” scripture reference that is so familiar yet so evasive. The stillness is the gift I received just because I had to cook a turkey. The stillness results in the calming peace I feel when I choose to take those quiet minutes, or hours, to reflect and meditate.

My protein dilemma was solved with a sudden snowstorm in our area a couple weeks ago which resulted in a roasting turkey while snowflakes covered everything outside in blinding whiteness. Have you ever stood outside in a pile of snow just after a snowstorm? The tangible stillness inspired me to take a breath and squint through the sparkling whiteness in search of the true meaning of Christmas…God’s love for me. What a gift.

Turkey Reflections

The day after Thanksgiving. Back to the healthy eating and exercise routine. While reflecting on the Thanksgiving meal, I decided not to gripe about what and how much I ate, but instead to think about the food as a metaphor for the relationships I crave, particularly at this time of year. Time for this foodie to see the turkey and trimmings in a new way.

The turkey. This is the meat of the traditional Thanksgiving meal. It’s a wonderful food, full of protein, providing me with the strength and nourishment to fuel my muscles for strength and good health. It’s the star of the show on this holiday, and I find it interesting that of all the foods we usually prepare, it’s the simplest. Rinse off, sprinkle a little oil, salt and pepper, and roast. The turkey reminds me of the strongest relationships in my life. My husband, close friends, family. Certain of the people in my life are the ones who are the true fuel for my strength and good health. I know that if I don’t spend the time I need with these protein sources, I get drained more easily and life’s circumstances affect me more than it should. These meaty relationships are simple, but require time.

The stuffing. It’s the flavorful, fun, fill-in stuff. With all its varieties, the stuffing can enhance the turkey with its spiciness. However, the stuffing can also absorb the juices from my primary protein source if I simply stuff too much. Like the big bowl of bread chunks that seems bottomless, I find it interesting that I can stuff way too much into a little space. Volunteerism, guilt, busy-ness, useless traditions. All these and more can provide way too much filling for my good health. It can be tasty and fun, and might fuel me for the short run, but it doesn’t give the long-lasting energy I need to sustain myself.

The cranberry sauce. This sweet enhancement to the Thanksgiving meal is exactly what makes everything else taste a little better. I love to have a bit of sauce with the turkey, with the stuffing, with whatever else ends up on my plate. It’s like my sweet relationships that lack the obligatory side effects of time and attention. They include old high school friends, new friends, temporary acquaintances—all of who add just what I need to enjoy the meat of my life a bit more.

Green. Bean. Casserole. This is an attempt at healthy living gone bad. I’m okay with the green, and even with the green bean, but when it becomes casserole, it becomes a dish I avoid. The healthiness has been masked in creaminess and crunchiness, like the healthy relationships in my life that seem simple but get masked in obligation and need redefining or skipping altogether. There have been seasons in my own life when I held onto a relationship just a bit too long that it became this unsavory side dish, and I have had to make this decision to either change it or skip it to maintain my own health.

The salad, asparagus, or brussel sprouts. There is usually one side dish that retains its simple, healthy state on the Thanksgiving table. The crunchiness and deep green colors of these foods can provide the vitamins and fiber that help us to enjoy the rest of the meal in moderation. I find it interesting that I usually skip eating these foods on Thanksgiving, even if they are on the table. There’s no room left for healthiness on a day devoted to indulgence. There’s a problem, however, when the sense of abundance makes me skip the simplicity of this day which is all about giving thanks. I want to remember not to skip giving thanks on this day, or any day, even if I skip the green stuff.

The pies. The pies epitomize indulgence and sweetness in all its forms: apple, pumpkin, lemon, cherry. The aspect of the pies I appreciate most is the sweetness of the family traditions tied to them. The passing on of the recipes and techniques for pie baking is in itself enough for dessert. I love the traditions and heritage passed on from generation to generation through these desserts. It’s a great finishing touch to a day devoted to thankfulness. This sweet gratitude is the treat for all of our days, not just the holiday season.

I’m full now, how about you? Be blessed this holiday season with the relationships you crave.

When 10 Equals 100

I came across a new realization on my weight loss journey last week: 10 equals 100! No, it’s not a new math method. It’s a new mindset.

As many of you know, I have lost over 100 pounds during the last five years, primarily as a result of my faith and prayer life. Praise God! Yet I still tackle the infamous ‘last ten pounds’ which I need to lose to reach my goal weight. It amazes me that it’s such a common theme; you know, you share with your girlfriend “I have these last ten pounds to lose!” What does she say? “I know what you mean…these last ten are the HARDEST!”

Why do these last pounds get such a bad rap? What’s the difference between them and the first ten? Hey, a pound is a pound, right? I’m not a nutritionist but I can acknowledge that there is some truth to the fact that losing these pounds is a different struggle. I think we’ve taken this concept too far, though. Why the last-pounds struggle? Here are a few reasons I can identify:
1. My body as a thinner person requires less calories than it did as a much heavier person; as a result, I am eating too much if I use some of my old eating habits; therefore I need to eat less.
2. I have more muscle mass than before, and so I can eat more if my metabolism is higher due to the muscle. Sometimes I might take that liberty too far and steep back into the old habits; as a result, I eat too much again.
3. My weight loss efforts are getting tiresome; after a long time of following this eating program, my body is too familiar with the routine and in its higher level of fitness, and requires that I change something either in my eating or exercise or both to wake up my metabolism.
4. I’m just tired of it all and so I simply eat out of boredom.
5. It’s possible I’m afraid of success and that I have identified myself as a person who needed to lose weight for so long that I’m not ready to give her up.
There’s no way to have long-time success in a healthy weight and lifestyle without some knowledge of the reasons behind the food science. That’s not my focus, though. I’m here to deal with the spiritual perspective.

I am thrilled to have finally become conscious of the fact that over the last ten months, I have been working from an attitude of “Hey, God. Thanks a lot for your help with those first hundred pounds. I’m down to the last ten…(gulp, here’s the problem)…I CAN TAKE IT FROM HERE!” The self-sufficiency fails to serve me once again. What am I thinking? Why do I assume that since these last pounds seem like a smaller goal, and therefore I can attain this one on my own? I persist with food tracking, exercising, reading new recipes and cooking…only to find myself in that state of permanent plateau once again. And boy am I excited to recognize my problem. Why? Because my God, the same God who held my hand through those hundred pounds, is still here. He’s with me, holding my hand, for these last ten pounds. I just forgot. I need to treat these last ten pounds the same way as those first hundred: a goal that can be accomplished only with God’s help.

There was an amazing new Scripture I discovered the next day after realizing this erroneous attitude on my part. It’s Galatians 3:3 in the NIV version: “Are you so foolish? After beginning with the Spirit, are you now trying to attain your goal by human effort?” Okay, so God needed to knock me upside the head with that familiar clunk of a V8 moment, but I think I get the message. Ten pounds, beware. You will be gone.

Serving Bread

As I walked to the back of the Open Door Ministry, the first thing I saw was the table with boxes and boxes of all types of bread and rolls, bagged in portions to be distributed. Of course I’d notice the bread. It’s one of my own personal drugs of addiction. The bread was next to the rows of grocery store bags containing the non-perishable food items. They were all lined up, soldiers ready to take on their mission. What really is the mission, I wonder?

I can see how easy it is to step into this type of serving situation with a bit of a superior attitude, although unintended and completely innocent. I’m one of several people who signed up in a time slot for this place which was a food pantry and clothing provider for those qualified to be in need. When I sign up to help people, I realize it sounds like it’s about me helping them. I’m one of those who has the resources, the health, the strength, the ability, and the desire to help others. What I have discovered, though, is that in the helping process, I am the one who’s receiving the work on my own heart. It’s not necessary to have the spiritual gift of mercy, or giving, or even compassion, to choose to sign up and be a part of a serving project. What is helpful on a personal level, however, is to tap into prayer for God to help me help others.

This time, I prayed about the serving project. I prayed I would help out in ways that were needed. I prayed I would see and hear what God would want me to see and hear. And so I did.

I saw the woman walk into the pantry for her first time. She was greeted by the staff with love and care. “Come on in!”, they’d say. “Sit down and let’s talk about what’s up.” So many of us simply need someone to sit down and listen to us. But many of us need a bit more; some tangible help. Not the smoothed-over “I’ll pray for you” comment, but a real listening ear and a chance for someone else to tap into our own life’s challenges to maybe take our hand and help us through the valley. In this place, there isn’t just the listening ear. There’s also the chance for hands-on help. It’s about finding the real need and meeting it. I could benefit from that focus when talking with my friends, my family, neighbors and acquaintances. Getting past the surface-level conversations and into real places of mission requires that I risk the next step that might require action on my part.

Then there was the couple who were browsing through the clothes racks, looking for something that would be useful and practical to put into their “free” bag of clothes. They had to guess at sizes since there wasn’t the opportunity to try things on, but they could take whatever they wanted. The larger-sized man stood next to me; I asked if I could help him find something in particular. “There’s not much in bigger sizes, is there?” I could have cried. My own food addiction had me in that familiar place so many times. I would be in a store and want to find something that fits and is helpful for my self-esteem, but larger sizes are elusive. It takes a lot more effort to find something that doesn’t look like a sack of potatoes when I’m overweight. His comment fueled me to take the time to take apart the slacks off the rack and look through several of them, one by one, to find the tiny size tag in the bottom right leg of the pants to read the numbers. We found one pair of slacks a little bit bigger, and it was like I found a treasure when I handed it to him.

Then there was the scary person. You know, the kind that make us say “Uh-oh, I don’t know if I could talk to her”. The miniskirt, fishnets and bleached hair seemed to offset the need to find sweaters and long-sleeved tops for her bag. I wondered what her story was. I asked if I could help her find something. She was looking for the blankets; they were usually in the back but must have been moved. She was obviously familiar with this place of handouts. How long does this go on, I wonder? How many times do these people come here. Is it possible to lack the motivation to move on?

Finally, the heart-wrenching interaction. It was unintended; I was finishing up the back rack of clothes to be sorted, not necessarily talking with anyone at the time, and next to me, on the chairs, were two small children. They were sitting quietly, one of them holding a bag of bread, waiting for the adults to finish their conversation and paperwork. The older child, a girl with bright eyes and dark hair to contrast her fair skin, looked up at me with a smile and simply stated “HI!” “Hi, there”, I replied. “This is my baby brother!”, she said, “and we got some bread to take home today.” I smiled, realizing the irony of the bread. “I bet you’re doing a great job helping to take care of him,” I responded. “Yes, I am!” A few seconds later, the adults finished. “Come on, it’s time to go!”, the girl said to her brother. “We can have some of this yummy bread when we get there!” She skipped out, taking my heart with her.

People are all the same, in some way, shape or form. She loved that bread as much as I do. She and her little brother could have older sisters and brothers that sit in the public school classroom next to my own children. We interact with people in need without realizing it. We don’t know other people’s stories, but we do know our own God, who makes us precious and unique. When we serve, let’s simply be our unique selves so that we can be like Jesus to people who need us. We end up receiving even more love and compassion ourselves. We simply can’t out-give God.